


Theodicy

by hesychasm (Jintian)



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-03-27
Updated: 2002-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:30:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jintian/pseuds/hesychasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley finds the way back.  Branches off post-"Sleep Tight."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theodicy

Sleep. Finally, there was sleep. Wesley floated in the dark and dreamed.

Someone had locked Angel into a pillory. His arms were thrust out through holes in the wood, on either side of his head.

"Hold still," Wesley told him. "Wriggling only makes it worse."

"I can't." Suddenly Angel's hands were outstretched, clasping an oblong white bundle at either end. "I can't drop this." Wesley watched the muscles of his forearms clenching under a sheen of sweat.

"Why do you do that? I always thought vampires couldn't perspire."

"You call yourself a Watcher?" Angel grimaced. "Wesley, you have to help me. Take this away before I drop it." The bundle shifted in his grip. White cloth spilling off. Gurgling sounds, tiny baby noises.

Connor. In Wesley's experience, babies all looked and sounded more or less the same. But he remembered thinking once, somewhere outside the dream, some moment when he had been awake and cradling Connor in his arms, that he could pick _this_ one out of a whole basket of babies.

Angel looked up with glassy eyes. "Take it away," he said desperately. "I can't hold it for much longer." His arms were trembling now. "Please. Please, Wesley. Help me."

Wesley held out his own arms, the stumps bloody and dripping. "I can't," he said. "I've already tried."

*

When he woke it was because someone had forgotten to close the window shades, and the sun was in his eyes. Instinctively, Wesley raised a hand to cover his brow. The movement pulled a whole series of muscles, straight down along his sides squeezing his ribs together, his abdomen, the arches of his feet. He moaned and dropped the hand.

"Wesley," Cordelia said, somewhere near. The lancing fire of the sun blinked out abruptly.

He opened his eyes and she was there, leaning over him, surrounded by a glowing halo. "Too bright," he croaked.

"Sorry. We just needed some light in here. Shut your eyes and I'll go pull the shades."

He did, hearing the harsh "grrrrk!" as she yanked the shades down. He kept his eyes closed as her heels clicked back toward him, kept them closed even as she covered his hand with hers. Cordelia's hands were so strong -- long, lean and uncompromising.

"Oh, Wesley," she sighed. "Where the hell do I even begin?"

"You could -- " He swallowed, and then, when he had his breath back, said simply, "Connor."

Cordelia sighed again. "What do you remember?"

For some reason, it wasn't at all like the other times he'd woken up in hospital. This time, there was no disorientation from drugs, no blanking on the moments before unconsciousness. The memories were brutally, deadly clear: Connor a living warmth in his arms, Justine with her sharp blade, the grass tickling his face as his blood flowed out to water it.

"Wes? Dammit, Wesley, talk to me."

He opened his eyes. "Everything. I remember -- everything."

"Okay," Cordelia said. "Okay." Her face had that drawn, hard look she used to get after painful visions. Her wide, mobile mouth was bare of lipstick, turned down and worn at the corners.

Wesley realized suddenly that he hated her mouth so colorless.

"Holtz," she began. "He took Connor into some kind of hell dimension, through a portal. The portal closed behind them and didn't leave any trace. That was two days ago."

Wesley choked.

She nodded wearily. "You've been asleep pretty much the whole time. The doctor said that was probably more because you were already exhausted from not sleeping, rather than from actual blood loss." She glared at him.

"Cordy..."

"I won't yell at you -- yet." Cordelia shook her head. "From what I could get out of the others, it didn't seem like Holtz planned the portal. Angel...Angel said it was some kind of time-traveling demon that did it."

"Yes, I remember. His name was Sahjhan, I believe."

"Fred's been researching him, but so far she's come up with zero."

Wesley hesitated. "Angel?"

She took so long to answer that he wondered if he hadn't actually managed to say it out loud. Then her hand squeezed his. "I kind of...Wesley, I kind of had the window shades open for a reason."

He closed his eyes again.

Not that he could ever have expected her to do anything except tell the truth, of course, whether the truth was wanted or not -- but oh, God.

Wesley tried to breathe, tried to concentrate on something else -- the discomfort of the hospital bed, needles, tubes, scratchy gown and sheets, bandage taped tightly to his neck -- tried to let those sensations replace the sound of her voice as she continued talking.

But it was Cordelia, and that was impossible. "He's out searching now, has been since it happened. The last time I saw him, he was just stopping at the hotel to get more weapons. I told him to stay away from the hospital."

He listened and heard the things she wasn't saying. "When'd you get back?"

"Last night. I had a vision."

Wesley nodded, eyes still closed. Here it was blessedly dark. He wanted to ask about Gunn, Fred, Lorne most of all. But there was a great weight attached to his chest, pulling him slowly downward. He wanted to give in to it, let it draw him into the blind dark where speaking was unnecessary, and all he had to do was sleep until he died.

"Wesley!" Cordelia's voice sharpened, poked at him. "Don't wimp out on me now. I need to know what you're going to do."

"Do?" He felt like laughing at her. The world was insane. He'd thought that before, even. He remembered telling Angel how funny life was.

"Yes," she said, "do. Look, Wesley, my vision... It was of you, not Connor or Angel." She stopped, but he didn't open his eyes. "Wesley, I need to know how we're going to fix this."

He was astonished to hear her voice quaver. In all the years he'd known her, he could count the number of times that had happened on one hand. "I don't know if I can fix it," he whispered finally.

Cordelia sniffled, wet, undignified. For a girl who had been such a beauty queen in high school she never seemed to care anymore about moments of utter ungorgeousness, about bags under her eyes, or stringy hair, or a runny nose.

"We're going to do it together," she said, and ah, there was that self-injected bravado of hers, didn't she know by now he could always tell when she was acting? "I'm going to stick by you. Angel needs you, Wes. We all need you."

This time he did laugh, the breath scraping his throat like dull, rusted nails. "Need me?" He coughed and pain sliced anew beneath the bandage. "Never...never heard such bullocks."

"Shut up." Her hand left his to grip his arm. Long, lean fingers, clutching him tightly, bruise-making. "You listen to me. Wesley. _Wesley._ We're going to get through this."

*

The hospital discharged him that afternoon with a supply of iron supplements. Cordelia shoved a green Gatorade bottle into his hand as they walked out to the parking lot. "You have to drink plenty of fluids," she said. "And as soon as we get you home you're going right back to sleep."

She had driven Angel's car. Wesley sank into the passenger seat, leaning his head back, the scent of hot afternoon mingling with the familiar black leather. He didn't remember much after that, just hazy bits of stopping at streetlights, his weight shifting as they turned corners, wind in his ears. Cordelia helping him into his apartment building, the wall of the lift pressing against his back, the cool sheets of his bed.

As he slept, dreamless, sunset approached and arrived.

When Wesley woke Cordelia brought him a cheese sandwich and another bottle of Gatorade to wash down his iron pill. Mid-sandwich, Fred and Gunn appeared in the bedroom doorway, Fred bearing a bouquet of small pink flowers, and Wesley had to turn his head and blink, hard.

They paused a step or two inside the room. Nobody spoke at first.

Cordelia made a disgusted noise. "Guys, he's not going to break, okay?"

Gunn shot her a look. "How you doing, Wes?" He swayed forward, hands gesturing uncertainly.

Wesley took a shaky breath. "I'm all right. Thank you, both, for coming."

"We're glad you're okay, Wes." Fred lifted the flowers in her hand. "We were so worried when we found you. We would have been at the hospital to give you these in person and all, in case you woke up, but then Cordy came back and Angel wanted us to help with the search." She trailed off and glanced at Gunn.

Wesley ignored the tightness in his lungs. "And how goes the search?"

"Oh, well, it's...it's not, not going, really. But I've been trying to research Angel's demon, and also any references to the dimension the portal led to, and Gunn and Groo have been combing the city with Angel for hours on end, talking to informants and things like that --"

"We're going to hit Wolfram & Hart," Gunn said quietly. "He was all set to do it himself, last night, but luckily Cordy swept in and talked him out of it. So we made a plan, and we're going in tomorrow night."

"What will you do?"

"Lilah Morgan gave Angel Connor's blood to drink," Cordelia said. "And she was working with that demon. So I'm pretty sure Angel just wants to make the bitch pay."

Wesley nodded. He slid the lunch tray to the side and folded his hands carefully in his lap. "I owe you all an explanation --"

"Wait." Gunn paused, his jaw working. "Look, we know about the prophecy. We found your notes, and plus Angel beat up a couple of Holtz's people. But what I just don't get is --"

"What you don't get is why I didn't tell you about it before."

Gunn passed a hand over his face. He looked tired, in a way that had been gradually disappearing since the time Wesley had first met him. Now he was battle-hardened all over again. "Yeah, Wes. I want to know why. What happened to 'compromising the safety of the group?'"

"We could have helped you," Fred added. "And Angel would never have put Connor in that kind of danger if he'd known about it."

"You mean, the way I put Connor in danger. More than danger. He's most likely dead because of me." Wesley's throat seized up, and he couldn't speak.

He pushed the blankets off of his legs and tried to stand, but Cordelia was in front him somehow with a hand on his chest. "Where do you think you're going? You're not walking around all weak and injured. Bed rest only."

He struggled against her, but Cordelia was stronger, her hand an implacable force. He almost tipped over and fell flat on his back. "Dammit," he choked out. "I'm not going to bloody _die_ , Cordelia. Isn't that rather the _problem_?"

Her anger surged up to meet his. "Don't even start with the guilt tripping, Wesley. Not now."

"Look, you want to know why I didn't tell anyone? I don't _know_ why! I had a damn good reason at the time, I'm sure, but as we can all see now it might've been better if I'd just shot myself in the head so long as I was aiming for my bloody foot!"

"Wes." Fred's voice cut through. "You did what you thought was best. We do all know that, because you always do what you think is best. It's just that this time, things got messed up."

He didn't look away from Cordelia. "And when don't they? Tell me when that happens. Tell me when I have ever made anything better, tell me one good thing I've done in my life that can outweigh _this_."

"You idiot, Wesley," Cordelia said softly. "You've always been the best thing about us."

He shuddered. "I can't believe that Connor is still alive."

"Well, he has to be." Her eyes were resolute. "Didn't your prophecy say Angel was going to be the one to kill him?"

Wesley, shocked, just stared at her.

"Guilt later," she said. "For now, sleep."

"No. If he is alive, if there's that possibility..." Wesley renewed his struggle to stand. "I need to research. I need to have something to bring to Angel."

She kept her hand on his chest for just a heartbeat longer, then lifted it. He got to his feet. Blood rushed to his head, almost blanking out his vision, but he kept standing.

"What do you need?" Gunn asked. "Books?"

"Everything I need is at the Hyperion."

"You want us to get 'em for you?"

"No." Wesley straightened his shoulders. "I'll go there."

*

The books were comforting, the paper dry and fragile, the scent of centuries hidden in the ink. Long nights of research could press that scent into his skin for hours afterward. He remembered, when he'd been so focused on translating the Scroll of Aberjian, that no matter how hard he scrubbed his hands the booksmell had always lingered, inescapable.

The office had been more or less put to rights while he was gone. The desk was back in its regular place, papers and books left in relatively neat stacks by Fred.

The statue he'd used to hit Lorne was on a different shelf, but he quickly glanced away whenever it caught his eye.

There had been no sign of Lorne or Angel when they arrived, the Hyperion just a big empty shell of a building. The light and noise the four of them brought in seemed at once alien and familiar to Wesley, a stage play based on real life. The gestures were false and grand, but well-known: Fred booted up the computer, Cordelia put on a pot of coffee, Gunn sharpened weapons, Wesley opened his books.

At some point during the night Gunn left to join Angel and the Groosalug. He came into the office where Fred had migrated and brushed a hand through her hair when he thought Wesley wasn't looking. "Don't strain yourself, English," he said as he left, hefting his axe over his shoulder.

Cordelia came in a few minutes later with another round of coffee. "How's it going?"

Wesley took a mug from her gratefully, grimacing as she dropped another iron pill in his palm. "I've found references to this Quortoth dimension, but they're all variations of what the demon Sahjhan told Angel, that it was the 'darkest of the dark worlds.' I've seen it referred to as the 'hell of hells,' the 'black pit,' the 'night beneath the night,' the 'endless dark'... But none of these are useful to know if you're actually looking to find the place."

"And we still haven't come up with anything on Sahjhan," Fred added.

Cordelia raised her eloquent eyebrows. "Maybe you should call it a night. It's one am already. And you don't want to be resuming the same non-sleep cycle." She gave Wesley a pointed look.

"Neither of you has to stay," he said. "I don't mean to keep you from sleep yourself."

"Oh, right. We'll just leave you here so Angel and Lorne can have all the alone time in the world to work out their revenge issues when they get back."

He shut up then, not wanting to ask when she thought that might be, as if he could be brave through his silence. Or as if they _wouldn't_ come back so long as he didn't acknowledge it out loud. He turned back to the books, pretending to ignore Cordelia's exasperated sigh and the tired furrow in Fred's brow.

Like always, he lost himself in the languages. Latin and dialects of demon, Aramaic, Sanskrit, Greek. Their sounds echoed through the corridors of his memory, carrying with them the weight of the dead, the promise of the future. He swam in a sea of prophecy and poetry, so much of it yet meaningless, drifted through the pages looking for something to catch his eye, to send him a signal. One hand trailed beneath the lines of text, anchoring his place. The other jotted down the English translations that filtered out of his head.

And yet, nothing, spectacularly large nothing. He wrote until his hand cramped and read until his eyes began to say even the English was gibberish. Finally he stopped to take his glasses off and pinch the bridge of his nose.

Fred had fallen asleep in her chair, a book tipped precariously on the armrest. The lobby beyond the office doorway was dark and quiet, no sign of Cordelia. He vaguely remembered her poking her head in some time ago, saying something about a nap upstairs.

Wesley stood. His back popped in several places as he stretched, dull heat settling just above his hips. Getting old, he thought. I'll be a permanent hunchback after another decade or so.

Fred's lips were slightly parted, her hair mussed and tumbling around her shoulders. He studied her for a moment, just drinking in the sight, then lifted the book -- exegesis of a scroll on demon realms -- gently out of her grasp and placed it on his desk.

When he turned back around, Angel was standing at the hotel counter.

*

At first Wesley thought he was looking at a ghost, Angel was so still and pale. His face floated white above his dark clothes, gaunt like a skull. A cut on his forehead bled a black river down one hollow cheek.

They stared at each other without blinking, until finally Wesley raised his chin and walked out into the hotel lobby, leaving Fred and the brightly lit office behind.

He cleared his throat. "Angel, I..."

"Don't say you're sorry." Angel's voice was deadly quiet. "If you say that, I will kill you."

He almost said it anyway, it sat so ready on the tip of his tongue. He almost said it because he'd spent a lifetime of practicing I'm-sorry's, and habit breaking was impossible when you were old enough to develop a hunchback and always smelled like ancient texts. He almost said it, but stopped himself at the last minute and said the next stupidest thing. "I was trying to save him."

"Don't say that either."

Angel turned abruptly on his heel and headed toward the weapons cabinet. The sword in his hand was caked over in dried black gunk, but he gave it only a casual wipe-down with his coat before he hung it back in its place.

Wesley remembered how worried Angel had been about childproofing the cabinet. He tried again, before his brain could make his rebellious mouth be quiet. "Angel, I want to help. I've been researching this Sahjhan, and the Quortoth dimension. I...haven't found anything concrete as yet, but I soon will." He paused, watching Angel's broad back. "I have every confidence we will find Connor."

And suddenly, with vampire-speed, Angel was looming over him and had his hands around Wesley's neck. Strong fingers squeezed around his bandage, making the wound move and open.

Heart pounding in his head. Wesley struggled to breathe, but Angel's grip was like a cage of steel, his face slack with fury.

"That's right," he gritted. "You find my son. You find my son who you lost. And when you do, when this is all over and I have Connor back, you leave this city. And I never see your face again, Wesley."

He dropped his hands then, pushing Wesley to the floor.

"Do you understand," Angel said.

Wesley nodded, gasping, "Yes." He huddled on his knees, wheezing and coughing as air seared back into his lungs. Blood trickled out from beneath his bandage. He tried to get to his feet, but his head took a lurch left and he half-collapsed where he was. The darkness flickered red.

Angel left him there, silently crossing the cold marble floor of the lobby, heading up the stairs.

*

Wesley stayed away from the Hyperion the next two nights. Cordelia brought him his books and notes, made sure he was well-stocked with Gatorade and was changing his bandage, gave him frustrated updates on Angel's mood and doings.

The Wolfram & Hart raid was only a partial success -- Angel, Gunn and the Groosalug managed to acquire more scrolls, which found their way to Wesley, but Lilah Morgan had apparently been untouchable behind an army of security guards. Cordelia recounted the events with a lot of Groo said's and Gunn said's, quite obviously leaving out Angel's name.

Wesley hadn't told her what had happened between them, but it was clear he wasn't the only one to come across Angel's wrath. Cordelia didn't reveal any specifics either, but she was angry, he saw. Hard-worded and hard-faced, her mouth a pale grim gash. Angrier than she'd ever been when Angel was obsessed with Darla, the first time a leader had turned against the group.

The second night Wesley stopped her before she stomped out of his apartment. "I'm sorry I haven't found anything yet," he said. "I'm truly doing everything I can."

Her expression cleared, was replaced by one of surprise. "I'm not mad at _you_ , Wes."

He made a show of raising his eyebrows. "Angel?"

She nodded. "It's just...ugh. He wasn't the only one who lost Connor. We all did, even you." She didn't notice him wince. "But just like everything, he's turned this into his own personal crusade. He doesn't stop to talk to anyone unless we make him, he doesn't ask for help, and let's just forget actually sleeping. He's going to get himself really and truly dusted this time, Wesley. The Powers are only going to let him push so far."

Wesley sighed. "But the world has pushed him this far, Cordelia. How much more can one soul take? He's lost almost everything."

"And what about the things we've lost?" she demanded. "Our whole lives are about him, Wesley, haven't you noticed? I suffered those mind-splitting visions for _years_ and I almost _died_ for him, and so did you, more times than I can even count. The least he can do is let us share this. And you know what else? He hasn't lost everything, he has _so much_ still, way more than he ever started out with!"

"But can he help wanting more?" Wesley made a placating gesture. "You yourself said that perhaps we were all destined to be alone. I know that Connor had almost -- no, that he _had_ \-- convinced Angel that he wouldn't be."

"He is not fucking alone!" Cordelia exploded. "I am so sick of hearing that! That makes all of us no better than the scum he kills on the street, doesn't he get that? Why does he keep trying to act like I haven't said this a million and one times already?"

Wesley looked down into her furious, frustrated face. He thought about telling her, about love and how it left you like the last man rattling around in an empty house, in a building full of rooms that only echoed your own voice back at you. But she had so carefully avoided the subject since even before she'd left, whether it was Gunn and Fred or herself and Angel, and he was never very good at _talking_ about love, either.

So he circumvented: "He's alone because no one else belongs to him. No one else was his unconditionally, except for Connor."

She shook her head. "Connor. Wesley, God, if we don't find him... If we don't find him I don't know what's going to happen."

He looked at her. She was such a young girl still, one who had only just re-opened her life to happiness. Now it was all crumbling around her, and this was the first time he had heard her acknowledge it. He thought she might never forgive Angel if she knew what he'd said to Wesley. And yet he knew also that if they didn't find Connor, despite everything she'd said in the past few days, despite everything she'd done, a part of her would never forgive him either.

Because he was the one who had done this. He had wrought this disaster on the group, this family that had formed despite all odds to keep Angel from being alone.

"I'm sorry," he said again, lamely. "Cordelia, I'm doing everything I can."

*

 _Quortoth name, night beneath night. Quortoth name, night beneath night._

The solution, like so many important things, came to him in a dream. Wesley had fallen asleep on top of his books with that phrase tumbling through his head, a literal string of letters in an ancient demon tongue flipping end over end in a vast darkness.

As he watched, the letters began to give off bright orange flame, and as they turned and moved fire trailed behind them. The fire ate at the darkness, burning a great chasm.

Wesley woke with his hands already scrabbling for pen and paper.

*

"Could you try breaking it down in basic English, Wes?" Cordelia gave him a frustrated look. Groo patted her shoulder.

Wesley looked around at the group assembled by the counter. He felt as though he hadn't seen them in months. He kept glancing at them as if there were changes hiding just out of sight under their skin, changes he could catch if only he were vigilant. Cordelia and Groo, Fred and Gunn, Lorne whose unreadable red eyes were making him stutter. Angel, who, if he had bothered to look up even once, would have made Wesley tongue-tied.

"All right," he said, averting his own eyes. "It operates on much the same principle as the Judeo-Christian-Islamic model of Creation, which posits that God created the world using letters, words, speech. The Jewish mystical tradition especially holds that He used the letters of His own name to do it."

"Got that part," Gunn said. "And?"

"And Quortoth is a demonic twist on Creation, in a sense. By manipulating the demon letters of its name in a certain way, one can create the 'darkest of the dark worlds' anew. Or rather, re-create it."

Fred interrupted. "How do you know how to manipulate the letters? I mean, if you do it incorrectly would you get a different world? And what happens to Quortoth between the times when you create it?"

"Well, I was being simplistic when I said 'create.' Quortoth is actually a demon dimension in continual existence very close to ours. It's closest wherever there is nighttime, sort of like a second night just 'beneath' the one we can see, as the scroll called it. The manipulation of the letters simply strips back the dimensional fabric that separates them."

Angel looked up for the first time from the sword he was sharpening. "And you know how to do this?"

Wesley nodded, trying to contain his excitement. "It should be fairly straightforward to work out a configuration, as there are only three letters to the name in its original language. All I would need to do is mark out areas for the portal and for myself to work the ritual, and then recite the configuration."

Cordelia raised her eyebrows. "What's the fine print?"

"Well, the ritual itself is built on the number three -- three letters, three to enter. I've gone over the translations and calculations, and I believe it will only work if three persons go through. Moreover, once the portal opens they _must_ go through, otherwise the person channeling the energy for the ritual -- that is, er, me -- would die."

A variety of concerned expressions traveled around the group, but Angel just nodded shortly. "Okay," he said. "The three will be Gunn, Groo, and me."

Wesley hesitated. "I have to remind all of you that time moves much faster in demon dimensions. I've no idea what the difference in rate might be -- anywhere from a month to hundreds of years could have passed already."

Cordelia and Gunn looked shocked by that, even though they had both been to Pylea. Lorne and Fred simply looked worried.

Angel stood. "Then I guess that means we start as soon as the sun sets."

*

L.A. had just come under a hot spell, and the night was sweltering. Sweat flowed down Wesley's back as he drew the circle and the appropriate symbols on the cement of the Hyperion's outer courtyard. He wiped his forehead with his arm, then moved a few feet away and drew an identical circle.

"You three stand on the line," Wesley said, pointing to the first.

Angel, Gunn, and the Groosalug positioned themselves on the circumference, loaded down with enough weapons to outfit a small medieval army. Wesley stepped into the center of the second one.

Cordelia, Fred and Lorne sat on a bench to the side, watching.

He wondered if he ought to go over the procedure again, but a look at Angel told him he'd best not take any more time. They knew the risks already, both for themselves and for him, and at this point he couldn't control how much Angel actually cared about the latter. So he satisfied himself with saying, "Good luck."

They nodded. Wesley tried unsuccessfully to quell the thunder of his heart as he began the ritual.

"Quirot. Tekhmah. Thonte. Thorot. Tekhte. Quirah. Tekhot. Thorah. Quire."

He called the letters out loud, head tilted back, sending them into the night. On the second round the air inside the first circle began to shimmer, the world turned orange and fiery, and a huge invisible hand grabbed Wesley up and shook him like a rag doll.

"Wesley!" he heard someone shout.

The orange light filled him, burned into his brain. He could feel it trying to crawl back out of him through his skin. He thought he might have screamed.

"Wesley! Stop! Wesley!" That was Cordelia, her voice slicing through the light like a ray of sun.

But he couldn't stop. He pushed the light back inside him, trying to channel it in one direction: toward the portal. It was like a swell of lava, a viscous liquid in all of his veins that he had to push and push and _push_ until it obeyed what he wanted.

God, he thought. I should have gotten more sleep.

"Wesley," Cordelia said. "Can you hear me? Angel can't get through."

He opened his eyes -- when had he closed them? and where were his glasses? -- and looked at her. The orange glow of the portal lit her hair on fire.

"The blood must live," he heard himself say, but the sound in his own ears was horribly, completely wrong.

"Oh, God, Wesley." That was Fred.

"What does that mean? What does it mean!" Angel.

"It means no vampires, Angelcakes." Lorne. "Beating hearts only."

"We should try something else." Gunn. "Look, it's killing him."

He heard his voice speak again, alien, deep. "No. Three must enter now."

"If we stop, it _will_ kill him!" Fred again.

Cordelia's hair flickered in the light. "It's okay. I'll go."

Angel shook his head. "Cordy, no, I can't let you do that."

"Too late. Anyway, it's about time I put all that sword practice to good use."

Angel grabbed her shoulders. "Cordelia, listen to me --"

She fought, but he held on tight. "No!" she shouted. "How about for once, _you_ listen? How about you stop for one second and realize that this isn't yours to do alone? That this belongs to all of us!" With a violent shove against his chest, she broke free of his hands. "Damn you, Angel." Cordelia turned away, taking up one of Groo's swords. "Let's go."

Wesley pushed the light toward the portal. The flames surged over the world as they stepped through, and this time he knew he screamed.

Then the three disappeared and he lost the sound of his voice. The roar of Quortoth filled his ears.

Angel stood between Fred and Lorne, his eyes fixed on the portal. Time passed.

*

Eventually, Wesley became conscious of someone's hand on his shoulder.

"Wes. How are you doing?" He couldn't hear Angel's voice, but he could see his lips moving, the concern -- real, actual concern -- on his face. Angel's eyebrows knit together and his eyes searched Wesley's.

He felt his heart swell. "I'm fine," he heard himself saying, as if from a thousand miles away. But it sounded normal again, at least, it sounded like his own once more.

"Don't lose them," Angel mouthed.

"No."

They stood looking at each other, the moment endless, without speech. Angel's hand lay curved around his shoulder -- strong, flexible weight, transmitting no warmth.

The orange light shifted and pulsed.

"They're coming," Wesley said.

Angel whipped around and leaped to the edge of the circle. Past him Wesley could see three figures approaching through the fire of Quortoth.

Two came through together, their faces covered in soot, their clothes tattered and burned. They bore weapons, metal of swords and axes gleaming sharply from the fire. Behind them walked a third, carrying a messy white bundle. As she crossed, the blanket came undone and trailed to the ground.

Flames fell away from the four like water. Wesley let the light go out from him and closed the portal.

Angel took Connor from Cordelia, his hands infinitely gentle, bending his dark head over the baby. Wesley waited for the sounds, the gurgles and tiny cries he would have known anywhere.

They never came. As Angel's shoulders began to shake, Cordelia's blank, staring eyes sought Wesley out and held him fast.

*

Later, Wesley remembered trying, unsuccessfully, to close his hands into fists.

He remembered her sword streaked with blood, lying on the floor of the lobby where Gunn or Groo had dropped it.

He remembered the great, empty silence, how it wrapped all of them up tightly to keep them from breaking it.

He remembered remembering that he'd lost his glasses. He left the others inside and went back into the courtyard. The night air caught him as he exited the building, caressing his naked face.

He scanned the ground, found his glasses lying on the cement just outside the second circle. He put them on with a trembling hand and looked through them. The left lens was cracked, bisecting the night. It made him trip walking back into the hotel, and he barely caught his balance.

**Author's Note:**

> theodicy: vindication of God's goodness in the face of evil
> 
> Comments and criticism welcome.


End file.
